


rocky seas, safe harbor

by julietofmayfair



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26052610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julietofmayfair/pseuds/julietofmayfair
Summary: Victors Callia Allington and Foster Klimm get ready for the opening ceremony of the 70th Hunger Games, but behind the scenes not everything is as perfect as the cameras show it is.
Kudos: 2





	rocky seas, safe harbor

**Author's Note:**

> (For context:
> 
> Foster is a victor who was hated by the Capitol public (more about him in the story), while Callia was a volunteer who ended up being a fan favorite for her confidence and bravery on screen, but the true reason for her volunteering was to try and win to save her family from starvation.
> 
> You can read more about each of them in my works 'heavy the head that bears the crown' and 'Suffer In The Spotlight', respectively!)

Callia Allington applied the last of her makeup and stared at the woman in the mirror. She was beautiful, her face glowing under the desk lights like a model out of a cover, but there was a sharpness to her as well that hinted at something hidden. A jaw set to a bit too tightly, a mouth that strained to smile, and a gaze as dark and cold as nightfall. Fine creases marked the skin near her eyelids and hid under a thin layer of concealer, a hushed up reminder of a life that had not managed to break her, but that had certainly tried. She wasn't the young victor anymore, that girl who had lost it all to win it all. When Callia looked at the woman in the mirror, she saw resilience, but she also saw pain.

Letting out a deep sigh, she stood up and walked to her closet, hiking her dress up as she slipped carefully into a pair of high heeled shoes. With one last look at the mirror, she smoothed out the silken fabric of her gown--a simple form fitting red dress she had not yet worn before--, and made her way out of the room, closing the door behind her.

As she walked the long hallways of the hotel floor, she could not help but think of all that awaited her that day. In a few hours, the 70th Hunger Games would begin, and with them, a whole celebration that had been months and months in the making. The Capitol was always in a state of excitement when a new edition of the Games came around, but this year the festivities promised to be spectacular. Not only had the chosen tributes sparked the interest of the whole city--so evenly matched even the betting enthusiasts were having trouble calculating the odds--, but this year marked the 70th anniversary of the event, and every past victor was sure to have their moment in the spotlight. 

Although her star had finally begun to fade with the passing of the years--younger winners like the Odair boy now taking the treacherous spots of the Capitol's favorite darlings--, Callia's story had always been a hit among the people of the city, so she knew the cameras would still give her plenty of airtime. The resentment she felt towards the Capitol was still as strong as it was all those years ago, but a decade of exposure to the whims and wants of its people had taught her to hide her anger. They could prod and question her all over again, fall in love with the version of her they had so callously fabricated for themselves, but in front of a camera, Callia had learnt to never, ever break. No, when it came to it, she knew she could handle it.

It was Foster she wasn't so sure about.

Stepping into the elevator at the end of the corridor, Callia pressed the button for the sixth floor and leaned carefully against the back wall, her polished-looking reflections staring back at her from the mirrored surfaces of the lift. Foster and her had always been a team. She recalled the first time they had shaken hands--her, the victor of the 58th Hunger Games; him, the winner that preceded her--, and how a tentative friendship had soon turned into a powerful and unshakable bond. They had seen each other grow from scarred teenagers to adults not quite ready for the world, but Callia knew that none of them could have made it on their own.

If the Capitol had so fervently sung her praises, then it was because Foster had never seen much more than their hatred and scorn. His Games had been wrapped in controversy since the very beginning, and the tragic loss of several fan favorites--some, at the hands of Foster himself--had set him up for the eventual distaste of the public. The most infamous incident involved one such favorite, a small but charming girl from district 3 that had captivated the people of the Capitol. After a close call with some of the Gamemakers' creations, the injuries she had sustained had left her weakened and in pain, and as she lay in a small clearing the only thing she could hope for was for her sponsors to save her. Lucky for her, a small parachute carrying the medicine she needed had begun making its way to her, but before she could do anything, Foster had darted out of the trees and snatched the package out of her reach. Weak as she was, there was nothing she could do but stare as he retreated back into the forest, taking the only thing with him that might have given her a chance. Her death had been slow and silent, and the Capitol audience never forgave him for that. 

His eventual victory did nothing but add fuel to an already burning fire, but whether the outcome had been orchestrated or not, it was clear the Gamemakers knew what they were doing when they crowned him. For the Hunger Games, there was no such thing as bad publicity, and if what it took to keep the people entertained was a villain they could love to hate, then a villain Foster became to them. Coward, faker, even _monster_ \--every name they called him was another gut-punch he had had to endure. There were supporters as well, of course, but even _they_ bought into the idea, hailing him as some sort of ruthless strategist, a mastermind completely in control. Only the people from the districts had understood the truth. Nobody that had lived such a life could have blamed him, not when his only crime had been fighting to stay alive. 

As the steel doors of the elevator slid open onto the sixth floor, Callia walked out and made her way down the hallway to Foster's room. Not only did they have to deal with the added fanfare of the anniversary this year, but their duties as mentors still required them to be a part of the regular show. She knew how much Foster suffered each time he saw his tributes in action, especially since most of them didn't seem to survive for long. Arriving with him at the Training Center would definitely get the people talking--as if they didn't do enough of _that_ already--, but at least this way he would not be left alone in the spotlight, something which he would surely appreciate. She knew she needed to be strong for the both of them, but she would be lying if she said she wasn't grateful for the company.

Taking a left at the end of the corridor, Callia walked on as she passed even more numbered rooms, counting them off until she reached room 624. Taking a second to fix her dress, she went to knock on the door, but before she could do it, something odd caught her eye. The door to the room stood slightly ajar, resting against the doorframe but not quite managing to close, as if whoever had opened it had not bothered to check the lock. Had Foster gone out and forgotten to close it? Knowing him, it was a possibility. Maybe his keycard had gotten lost and he had gone down to the lobby in search of a new one, making sure not to lock himself out if there was no one down there to help. Or maybe he had gone to fetch _her_ , forgetting to close his door properly in his nervous haste. Whatever the cause, Callia thought, she knew he would not leave without her, and going back to her room now would only be a waste of time. Giving a small knock first, Callia pushed the door open and made her way into the room.

"Foster...?"

The space inside was dark, but the glow of the city below filtered in through the parted courtains, making the scene before her eyes impossible to miss. At the foot of the bed, curled up and seemingly unconscious, lay a disheveled-looking Foster, his feet dangling motionless over the edge of the mattress. His long hair, always so neat and tidy, fell messily over his face now, making it hard for Callia to get a good glimpse of it. By the state of his clothing, he had clearly begun dressing himself for the event--the same pair of suit pants and shirt he wore every year, his prosthetic right arm already attached--, but the bowtie around his neck remained untied, and in a discarded pile on the floor, his suit jacket and vest lay hastily like an afterthought.

And right by his side, lying empty on the crumpled sheets by his glasses, was a single bottle of morphling.

It didn't take long for the shock to send Callia into motion. Flipping the light switch with a slap, she ran quickly to the bed, her heart racing with fear as she landed clumsily beside her ailing friend. With frantic hands she tried pulling the hair away from Foster's face, looking for any sign that he was still alive and breathing. Her gaze found the discarded bottle--a tiny thing no bigger than a thumb he must have snuck from a hospital in 6--, but in her panic all she could think of was the slim possibility of an overdose.

A stifled whimper coming from her side made Callia's heart leap, putting all her worries on hold for the moment. Though he was still lying as she had found him, Foster had finally begun to stir, his body shaking slightly with every repressed sniffle. His eyes refused to meet Callia's, and his good hand clung tightly to the messy sheets, hiding behind them as if in shame. When he finally spoke, he did so tremulously, in a voice so vulnerable it was a miracle it did not break.

"I-..., I'm sorry."

It didn't take long for a new wave of sobs to overcome him. With soothing motions, Callia brushed her hand against his hair, trailing patterns with her fingers the way she knew it calmed him down, waiting for the worst of the outburst to pass before gently helping him up into a sitting position. She could clearly see his face now, pale and haggard, the dark circles under his eyes a clear indication of many a sleepless night. Even his evening clothes--so prim and spotless he always kept them--looked sad now, wrinkled and creased like it was him that had just fought in the Arena. His white shirt was dotted with stains, but if the droplets had come from his crying or from the bottle by his side, she couldn't tell.

So in the end, it had been morphling. Was it such a surprise to see Foster, of all people, finally fall into its clutches? As Callia sat in that room, one arm wrapped around the sagging, trembling body of her best friend, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had always expected it. There was no shortage of victors who had taken up the habit, eager to lose themselves in the numbness that only the opioid could provide, no matter how fleeting. How else, for some of them, would the nightmares ever stop? And hadn't Foster--a man so vilified by the Capitol it had broken him down--, hadn't _he_ suffered enough?

But Callia had suffered, too. The thought came so suddenly her own cruelty caught her off guard, sharp and stinging like a poisoned blade. It wasn't like her to be so callous, to put herself above others when it was _her_ help they were seeking, but a part of her couldn't let go of that selfishness. They had made a promise, Foster and her, all those years ago when the future seemed bleak and full of horrors: _never lose yourself, never abandon each other._ Now Foster had turned to morphling, and it was her that was left to tremble at the thought of seeing him fall.

Her musings must have shown on her features, because Foster turned toward her and fixed her with a stare, a sad little smile creeping across his tired face.

"You're disappointed."

"What? No, Foster, of course not," she said, feeling ashamed she could have ever held that against him. What was _wrong_ with her? This was _never_ about her, and it would never _be_. Disgust bubbled up inside her, but she tried not to let it show. "It's just that-..."

" _Yes_ , you are!"

Freeing himself from Callia's embrace, Foster leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, a short, hysterical laugh escaping his lips. He remained still for a moment, but whatever energy had carried him through that outburst was clearly gone now. Slowly, he let out a sigh and let his shoulders sag, sinking further and further into himself.

"I fucked it up, Callia," he said, his soft voice now tinged with bitterness and sorrow. "I failed you. I thought I could resist, but I guess I'm not as strong as you thought I was." He chuckled, shaking his head as if the idea was nothing more than a bad joke. "Now I'm _really_ gonna give them something to talk about, huh? _Me_ , dazed and filled with morphling, struggling to look like I'm not drugged out of my mind for the interviews and trying to help a kid that's got no chance in hell of making it out alive, and all because I was too weak to do anything about it."

As his words weighed down on them in the quiet of the room, Callia knew that there was nothing she could say in that moment that would truly take away that pain. How could she hope to do that, when that pain had had years and years to grow and fester, with no certainty that it would ever stop? As victors, they were supposed to be the _"lucky ones"_ , the brilliant few that had beaten all the odds and triumphed in the face of adversity, but as she looked at Foster sitting next to her, despondent and weary of a life he hadn't asked for, she reminded herself that it wasn't like that at all. Like all the others that lived under the control of the Capitol, they too were victims.

Without saying a word, Callia leaned slowly toward Foster and wrapped her arms tightly around him, feeling him shudder as she held him close to her. The simple act was enough to bring him to tears again, and as he settled into the embrace she could feel him clinging desperately to her with his good hand, his body shaking with every gut-wrenching sob.

"I'm sorry, Calli," he cried, his words barely intelligible through his weeping. "I just-..., I _can't_ go through this again, I-..."

"I know. I know, I don't want to, either, but..." She tried hard not to cry, not to show her friend how scared and helpless she truly was, but she could not keep her eyes from welling up, nor her voice from trembling. "We can do it together, ok? I'll be with you, like always, and you'll be alright, you hear? We'll be _ok_."

Another sniffle, another sob. "I'm sorry, Calli. I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to forgive, Foster. _Nothing_. I'm just glad you're ok." 

For a short while, the two of them stayed that way, holding on to one another, grateful for the comfort of each other's arms. Foster's anguished cries filled the silence as he struggled to calm himself down, his heart beating against Callia's as she held him close, refusing to let him go. It was a cruel reminder, knowing that for them, the Games would never be truly over, but as she cradled him in her arms, she finally understood what had scared her so much before. 

He needed her, yes, but only as much as she needed him. The thought of losing him to the morphling terrified her, the idea of him fading away into a husk of himself as harrowing as the Games itself. Just as he lived for her courage and the way she laughed when the cameras weren't watching, she too couldn't fathom how she would go on without seeing him smile. He was her friend. Her partner from the very first day. The man she had grown up with, and without a doubt, the man she loved. Taking care not to hurt him, she wrapped her arms a little tighter around him, hoping that her warmth and protection could stay with him from then on until the end.

It wasn't long before Foster's ragged gasps turned back into the deep, tranquil breaths that signaled the end of his outburst. His body, tired and sore after all that stress, stopped the shaking and went still, his muscles relaxing under Callia's touch as the calming effects of the morphling finally made its way into his system. Making sure the worst had come and gone, Callia disentangled herself from the hug and then both of them sat up straight, looking blankly at the room around them. With a gentle hand, she brushed the hair back from Foster's face, tucking some strands behind his ears as she spoke in a soft, soothing voice.

"After all this is done, we're gonna have to talk about this. But not now." Her hands moved down to his shirt collar, straightening it out before setting out to work on his bow tie. "Now we have to go get ready if we wanna be at the ceremony in time to help our tributes, ok?"

Foster nodded slowly as she put the finishing touches to the knot of his necktie, giving her a small smile before reaching for his glasses and putting them on. There was a sluggish quality to his movements now, listless and floaty, like he had not yet woken up from a dream. With a delicacy not unlike her own, he placed his hand on top of Callia's, stroking her skin with the tips of his fingers.

"I wish we didn't have to go," he said, his gaze fixed on some random spot on the floor. His voice was barely more than a whisper, as if he knew no amount of wishing could change what needed to be done. "I wish we could stay here, just the two of us."

Moving her hand around, Callia's fingers found Foster's and locked around them, squeezing softly as a pang of sorrow ran through her. "Me too. But you know we can't."

"I know."

Pulling his hand back, Foster let out a sigh and got on to his feet, walking over to the pile of clothes on the floor to finish dressing himself. Callia followed suit and stood up, taking the little bottle of morphling with her and making her way over to the small desk by the wall to give Foster some space and privacy. She didn't know how well he could keep his current state a secret from the cameras, but one thing was for sure: it wasn't something for them to discuss. Opening one of the drawers, she tucked the little bottle inside and shut it back up, safe from the Capitol and its prying eyes that liked so much to feed off of their lives. 

As she lifted her head up, her gaze caught her reflection looking back at her from the mirror on the wall. How many times had she stared into those dark eyes, felt the hurt and the anguish rooting inside her, threatening to take over her whole? How many times had she cried, like Foster, unsure if she could bear to go on, wanting to put a stop to it all? Many times, and she was sure there would be many more. But she was here. When Callia looked at the woman in the mirror, she saw pain, but she also resilience, and for now, maybe that was enough.

"Hey, Calli?"

The sound of Foster's voice pulled her out of her reverie and made her turn, leaving her reflection behind as she focused her attention back on her friend. He had not yet finished with his clothing, but despite his lethargy he was still working well at it, fastening the last buttons of his waistcoat in his one-handed way Callia couldn't help but admire, and find so handsome.

"Thank you," he said, looking up from his vest and giving her a smile so genuine she knew could keep her going forever. "I really don't know what I'd do without you."

"Could say the same to you."


End file.
